Don't
by StillWaters1
Summary: Even within one word, John Watson was a layered man. 3 episodes, 3 times John told someone "don't," and 3 layers of meaning.


Title: Don't

Author: Still Waters

Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Just playing, with love and respect to those who brought these characters to life.

Summary: Even within one word, John Watson was a layered man. 3 episodes, 3 times John told someone "don't," and 3 layers of meaning.

Notes: This piece was conceived, researched, written, and edited in one evening, in an attempt to take my mind off how bloody awful my eyes feel. I probably should have closed them instead, but sometimes you just need to create. As always, I truly hope I did the characters justice. Thank you for reading.

* * *

_A Study in Pink_

The first time, John was in an abandoned warehouse with an impeccably dressed man attempting the 'omniscient, threatening stranger' method of getting information. Unfortunately for the stranger, John didn't scare easily, nor did he readily abandon his deeply seated moral principles. Unfortunately for _him_, however, the man _did_ have a rather unsettling amount of information about his recent activity and therapy sessions.

It really shouldn't have been surprising then when the condescending, confidential-information-stealing bastard stopped John from ending the meeting on his own terms by mentioning his left hand and superiorly demanding, "show me." John could have turned right back around and kept on walking. Maybe he should have. Instead, he re-straightened his posture, shifted his weight onto his good leg, and held the hand up in front of his chest, steeling himself for the inevitable tremor's betrayal.

But then the man had stepped forward, not only moving into his space, but reaching for his hand as well.

And that was just not on.

John's eyes dropped from the man's face, sliding down and to the left as he immediately pulled his hand out of reach.

"Don't."

It was simultaneously weary and wary; the tremor he didn't yet realize was absent from his hand now lying just under the surface of that single syllable instead. A soldier's order wavering with a hurt man's distrustful anticipation.

Sherlock's appropriately dramatic archenemy tilted his head and raised his eyebrows, looking down at John as if he were some lesser species to either be manipulated or patted on the head for its simplicity. It was there, underneath all the tightly controlled anger and raw vulnerability, that the resilient, inner strength that kept him going - newly fortified and already binding him to Sherlock Holmes - sparked hot in John's chest.

One would think that the posh accent and clothing would have afforded such a man an expensive education; enough to know that "show" and "touch" were not the same bloody word. That John's acquiescence to "show me" – holding up his hand – did not imply an equal agreement for physical contact.

But John knew this man's sort; knew that the location, the persona, even each individual _word_ had been chosen to best present this premeditated challenge and evaluate his response. So he strengthened his resolve, pushed past his discomfort, and met the man's eyes defiantly; snapping his hand out for inspection and holding it so that the damned tremor would be impossible to miss.

Because the "don't" may have been a clipped abbreviation of "don't touch me." But the final decision to hold out his hand, to display what he had constantly tried to hide since his return to London? That was John defining both himself – "don't mistake me for someone who can be intimidated into taking orders from you" – and any future interactions between them: "if you're going to violate my privacy, threaten me, and try to use me for your own needs, don't think it's going to be on anything but _my_ terms."

* * *

_The Great Game_

The second time, John was standing in Joe Harrison's flat after Sherlock broke in and began studying Andrew West's blood on the windowsill as if he'd known it would be there all along. When the flat's rightful tenant returned with the sort of awful timing John had become accustomed to since moving into Baker Street, he pulled out his gun, centering himself into the familiar calm that accompanied imminent danger. Walking to the sitting room door, then smoothly out into the stairwell, he brought the firearm up at the same time Joe lunged forward, bicycle raised as a weapon.

"Don't. Don't."

His gun hand was as steady as his voice; the repetition and stern shake of his head emphasizing the seriousness of the matter. Each syllable was a sharp bark; a clear order to stand down. A warning from a man that not only knew how to use the weapon in his hand, but one who had used it before and would not hesitate to do so again if necessary.

Joe may have been a drug dealer and a murderer, but he wasn't an idiot. He dropped the bike and sagged wearily against the banister.

* * *

_The Reichenbach Fall_

The third time, John was looking up at St. Bart's roof, mobile to his left ear, listening while his best friend choked out lies that rapidly coalesced into an all-too-real suicide note.

_Goodbye, John._

"No, don't."

John was a steady man made up of dozens of minute layers that most people never even saw. From the degree of military body language and tension in his muscles, to the subtle shifts in his facial expression, word stress, and tone of voice, everything had several strata of meaning for those who knew him well enough to see beyond the mild-mannered, long-suffering surface of Sherlock Holmes' inexplicable friend.

Mycroft's "don't," Joe Harrison's "don't," Sherlock's "don't"…..none of them were the same. Mycroft's and Joe's had each held several unique layers of warning and personal conviction.

Sherlock's, of course, broke the pattern.

Because John's "no" was overflowing with disbelief, shock, desperation, and pre-emptive grief; the strangled tears and choked back anger of someone who had witnessed this sort of end before.

But the "don't," for once, was as simple and straightforward as people often mistook John to be. As a final word to a friend on the precipice of violent death, there were no layers to it at all.

It was one thing and one thing only: a plea.

From one half to its other.


End file.
